That Forgetful Shore Read Free

can be the one to hand it to Trif, thrusting her own next to it.
    â€œYou took top marks in Reading, Geography, Geometry and Algebra,” Kit says, “and I took top marks in British History, Newfoundland History and Composition. Between the two of us we got all the top grades.”
    It’s no surprise. No one expected Ted Parsons to take the top scores, least of all Ted himself; the only thing to be determined was which subjects Kit would lead in, and which Triffie.
    â€œYou both should be teachers,” Mr. Bishop tells them. “A year or two of college in St. John’s to get your Preliminary CHEs, and you could be teaching in a school of your own the September after next.”
    Trif catches her breath. A sudden vista opens up before her: stepping aboard the train at Bay Roberts station, the tracks carrying her away from the Point. Sitting in a classroom in St. John’s with an open book on the desk in front of her, clean sheets of paper to write on. Her own little boardinghouse room with her skirts and blouses hanging on hooks behind the door. Standing in front of her own classroom, children’s heads bent over their Royal Readers. Everyone in town calling her Miss Bradbury.
    Kit pouts. “I’m not sure I want to be a teacher.” Kit sees other vistas, other possibilities. For her, teaching dozens of children in a one-room school is a narrowing of possibilities. For Trif, there has always only been this one path, the dark tunnel that leads through Aunt Rachel’s house. She will rear her younger cousins, cook dinners and scrub clothes, till the tunnel leads her straight to some man’s house where she will bear her own children and do the same chores till she dies. Now, a door opens: a brief glimpse of another corridor, a different room. The door closes as quickly as it opened. “Aunt Rachel and Uncle Albert would never let me go to St. John’s.”
    â€œThat’s why I walked up here with Kit, so I could speak to your aunt,” Mr. Bishop says. Uncle Albert is away on the Labrador for the summer; any major decisions will be made by Aunt Rachel. “There’s such a need for teachers, so many little coves and bays where children don’t learn because there’s no-one to teach them. It would be a shame if girls with gifts like yours didn’t have the opportunity to further them.”
    His excitement is contagious and Trif finds it hard to tamp down that little flame of hope that kindles again with his words. Joe Bishop is a tall man with dark hair sprouting high up above a smooth-domed forehead that makes him look clever and distinguished. He has been the teacher at the Missing Point school for six years, which makes him the only teacher Triffie has ever known: when she reads the word “teacher” in a book it’s Mr. Bishop’s face that comes to her mind’s eye. She and Kit secretly call him Dear Pedagogue behind his back.
    Aunt Rachel appears then, coming around from the back of the house. She invites the schoolmaster to come in through the front door, used only for important guests, to sit in the parlour and have a cup of tea. Trif and Kit, excluded from the parlour, go to the kitchen where Trif hangs out the last of the wash and quickly makes soda bread to go with the fresh meat soup Aunt Rachel has put on for supper. Uncle Albert got credit for supplies from Abe Parsons before he shipped out for the Labrador with Skipper Wilf, so the pantry is full and they’re able to enjoy a change from salt fish every day.
    Half an hour later, Aunt Rachel lets Mr. Bishop out of the parlour. “Kit, I’m going up to talk to your parents now,” he says, and Kit joins him, going out the front door. He turns back to Triffie. “Congratulations on your examination marks, Triffie.” His voice sounds sad despite the congratulations. He turns to leave with Kit, his silhouette beside hers in the doorway.
    It occurs to Trif